


I'll Be Waiting on the Other Side (All You Gotta Do Is Cross that Line)

by drabbleandfluff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Coulson Lives, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Jargon ahoy, Medical Recovery, Post Avengers, This is a love song for Agent Coulson, Trauma Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drabbleandfluff/pseuds/drabbleandfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, Phil knows he can't really blame Nick. The man hadn't known. Contrary to popular belief, Nick Fury is not omniscient; especially regarding certain circumstances that were being purposefully kept on the down low, by Phil himself.</p><p>And so Clint Barton, like the rest of the Avengers, had not known about Phil's successful surgery and recovery.</p><p>Not for four of those ten days. And by then, the damage had been done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Waiting on the Other Side (All You Gotta Do Is Cross that Line)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this about eight months ago... forgot about it, then picked it up two months ago and ended up adding 9K more. I wanted to post this before it all got Jossed come September.
> 
> Title taken by bastardizing Bruno Mars. Apologies to him.
> 
> Un-beta'd. Grammarians beware. ... and as per usual, apologies for my proclivities for making up my own rules for sentence structure and punctuation.

 

A droplet of sweat rolls lazily down Phil’s neck, fat and heavy, brimming with salt and electrolytes; its trajectory decelerated by a thick layer of suntan lotion slathered over his chest and neck, arms, torso, toes…   he smells of coconut oil and sunlight.  

He’s a poster boy for poolside boy-toys for rich, bored housewives.  That is, of course, if he were a twenty-two year old nymph with a hairless body and flawless skin, soft and smooth.

He is in fact, a forty-eight year old man, returned from the brink of death brought near on by a Norse demi-god bent on world domination and harboring (in his opinion) a monumentally petty, one-upmanship grudge for an elder sibling.   Madness and self-esteem issues, not withstanding.  

He has scars littering his skin, old and new.  The most recent of them all is a blaring eyesore down the middle of his chest.  His back looks even worse.

Nonetheless, Phil Coulson is on vacation.  There is smooth white sand caught between his fingers, and the soothing murmur of the Pacific Ocean lapping well close of his ear.  He wiggles his toes to bury them beneath the top layer of sand, seeking the cool dampness below the surface.  Phil tilts his head to the side to redirect the sun against his skin.

It feels so good.  To be warm.  Hot even.  He savors the feel of sweat pooling in the hollows above his collarbone, hums in pleasure as he feels the perspiration gliding down his ribs to the beach towel spread out below; the heavy caress of the sun so very welcome.  For a moment, he’s not so cold anymore.

He’d call it PTSD, this unnatural chill he feels at the core of his body. The frostiness he thinks is leaching into his soul.  That no matter how many hot showers he takes, how many days in the sun he basks in (literally bakes in), there’s still an inexplicable _emptiness_ inside that stops him cold.  That makes him feel small and alone.  

It’s probably just a subconscious reaction to having been purposefully placed into clinical hypothermia (during that mad scramble to save his life), but even now, he can’t shake the phantom iciness against his insides, permeating and cloying around in his mind.

After his recovery (and that would be his _full_ recovery a miraculous four months later), Phil had asserted access to his medical file.  Sure, he could have just asked the docs what they’d done to him, but Phil knew that nothing was more comprehensive and complete, than a dry black and white medical progress report.  The physicians at SHIELD were the elite, and they understood the need for concise documentation.  Objective and thorough.   Especially if the subject (and yes, that would be the patient, Phil in this regard) was being treated with experimental drugs and cutting-edge medical technology.

He had gone into cardiac arrest following his confrontation with Loki (and subsequent _highly_ abbreviated sitrep with Fury).  Phil’s heart had stopped for two minutes twenty-eight seconds before the medical team had truly gotten to him.  CPR had been initiated and continued for 25 minutes enroute to the medical bay.  His body had been put into clinical hypothermia to preserve his brain and organ function.  Once his heart had started up again, the surgery began.  Sixteen hours.  To stitch up the gash in his aorta, to repair the rend to his lungs.  To repair the hole from Loki’s spear in his back, through, and out of his chest.  He had been spared spinal cord injury, by a mere half-inch.

The trauma had been massive; his blood loss, even more so.  Liters and liters of blood expanders, colloids, synthetic blood products and pints of donor blood were all poured into him as his heart worked frantically to keep his body perfused; to keep his mind from dying.  All of it done, at thirty-two degrees Celcius.

To stitch the hole in his aorta, they’d put him on cardiac bypass.  There was video of the procedure (of the whole operation, all sixteen hours), and Phil (his morbid curiosity known only to those closest to him) watched the footage as they stopped his heart.  He eyes continually strayed to the corner of the monitor, watching the clock count the minutes as his heart lay there, not pumping.  He observed his body lying in an ice bath, packed under his arms, around his groin and neck; what he presumed were cold blankets wrapping his arms and legs, everywhere except the open cavern of his chest.  He watched as his insides were manhandled and moved around, the cavities washed with fluids, poked and prodded to assure nothing was being missed.  Right before the bypass machine was to be rerouted and turned off, he saw his heart and adjacent internal tissues injected with something in a small syringe.  

After his heart had been restarted, Phil watched as he went into cardiac arrest two more times before the end of the entire operation.   

At the go ahead of Fury himself, Phil had been injected with an investigational drug-- a tissue regenerator, that would hopefully provide and assist his body in producing the ‘Band-Aid’ he needed to survive surgery.   

Phil awoke from this surgery ten hours later, dry, but chilled to the bone.  Then was put under a medical coma for the next ten days.

 

 

\---

 

 

In retrospect, Phil knows he can’t really blame Nick.  The man hadn’t known.  Contrary to popular belief, Nick Fury is not omniscient; especially regarding certain circumstances that were being purposefully kept on the down low, by Phil himself.

And so Clint Barton, like the rest of the Avengers, had not known about Phil’s successful surgery and recovery.  

Not for four of those ten days.  And by then, the damage had been done.

 

 

\---

 

 

Phil hears the splashing of someone walking out of the surf (all four inch waves that they are today) and acknowledges his visitor with a shift of his head, without opening his eyes.  He knows who it is.  In fact, they’ve both been sent here for… _recuperation_ , amongst other things.  It is the least of what they are doing.

 

A shadow shades his face, and tiny droplets of salt water feel like they sizzle, where they fall upon his too hot skin.  Opening one eye on a squint, Phil looks up and sees Clint Barton, face in shadow as the sun blooms a halo around the back of his head.

Clint shakes his head in a boyish gesture to rain more seawater on Phil--  the playfulness of it all makes him want to tackle Clint down.  To wrestle and manhandle him around and cover them both in white hot sand-- until they’ve got it in places they’d rather not think about. To laugh and see the sun reflecting off the sparkle in Clint’s eyes.

But that’s not where they are right now.  And haven’t been since the day he’d woken up.

 

Instead, there’s an ache beneath his rib cage as Phil forces himself to lie there; to settle for a small smile of appreciation in place of the kiss he would hope for.

“Hey.”

“Hey, you…” Phil replies softly.

Clint drops to his knees, half on Phil’s towel, half on the sun baked sand.  He leans over, dripping more cold water on Phil’s skin.  There is something in Clint’s gaze that is brooding and heavy.  Something Clint hasn’t yet put words to for Phil’s benefit; but Phil sees it, lurking behind his eyes.

Clint smells of the sea: sharply of salt and over warmed sunshine; a wide vastness of mystery, of secrets.  Elusive.  Phil moves to roll up to him, but Clint leans away, sitting back on his haunches.

Familiar disappointment pools in his gut, and Phil shifts back on his towel, closing his eyes once again.  He doesn’t want to see the ocean glistening off Clint’s tanned shoulders, nor watch as the water rivulets fall and track down the hollow of Clint’s spine.  He needs some self-preservation, after all.

“Good swim?” he asks instead.

Phil can practically feel the bore of Clint’s eyes on his scar as he turns his head in Phil’s direction.  He’s covered it with an obnoxious stripe of zinc oxide to protect the scar tissue from blatant discoloration.  He can covet an even suntan the next time they’ve got an opportunity for some time away together…  Huh.   _Next time._  Phil wants to snort at his own saccharine optimism for even _thinking_ it to himself.  He doesn’t.  

Clint’s still slightly out of breath, having come in from swimming laps to the half-mile buoy out in the bay.  He’d been out there the last hour and a half.  He shifts and settles onto the sand, facing the sea, knees bent and arms loosely resting atop them.

Phil cracks open an eye, watches out his periphery as Clint stares out at the sea he’s just stepped out of.  Looking like he’d like nothing more than go back out there again.

Phil closes his eye.  The sun blazes down upon him.  Upon them both.  He feels so damn cold.  

“Yeah.”

The affirmation is so quietly spoken, and so delayed from when he’d asked, that Phil can’t be sure if wasn’t just the sigh of the sea answering him instead of Clint.

 

They’re at Stark’s semi-private island in the Pacific.  In a last ditch effort at… _something_.   

Phil’s been given the green light, by Medical, by Psych, by everyone necessary with alphabet soup degrees behind their names; and is going back to work full time come Monday.  What that’ll entail, exactly, is still up in the air.  Phil’s first meeting is with Nick at oh-eight-hundred, and even _he_ is unsure what the outcome of that will be.

So as a last _‘hurrah’_ , Tony had been generous enough to send he and Clint out here, for a _‘little calm-before-the-shit-storm-kinda-thing-starts-up-again weekend vacation’_ , he’d said.  

There’s no one else on this particular part of the island for miles.  For he and Clint, it’s just the sun and sea, coconuts, and sand crabs.  Maybe, Phil had thought, without the expectations of doctors, therapists, well-meaning friends, co-workers-- simply the _overwhelming constant presence_ of other people… maybe he had thought they had a chance of bridging this gap that had grown between them.

Phil knowingly admits to himself, though, that the problem is deeper than that.

 

 _‘Good.’_  

Phil’s replying murmur fails to even find voice.

 

 

\----

 

 

It’s been ten months since the day Loki changed his life (changed their lives).

The months leading up to _Now_ have been full of pain and frustration. For the both of them--  days on end of every kind of therapy to have ever been given title.  Phil is physically drained.  Mentally pummeled.  Emotionally exhausted.  And he’s just _recuperating._  He can only speculate (he’s got a good idea… but to _know;_ goddamnit it eats him up inside), he can only measure the toll peripherally, that it’s taking out of Clint.

Clint has yet to tell him the extent of what Loki did to him.

 

Phil wakes to the smell of breakfast cooking (and through the open window, the smell of an incoming rainstorm).  He makes his way to the kitchen in his t-shirt and pajama pants and realizes, above the sound of the soft gurgling of the coffee pot and the running water in the sink, what he’s hearing is Clint singing.

He stops in his tracks, closes his eyes and simply _bathes_ in the moment.

Nothing is more joyous to his ears than the sound of Clint’s voice wrapped around a melody and bringing it to life.  Clint’s voice does _things_ to Phil; and he can’t stop (doesn’t want to stop) the soft smile it brings to his face to hear Clint doing what he loves best.

The last refrains of one song ends and the next picks up-- and it widens Phil’s smile, because it’s one of his favorites.

 _I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things_   
_We can do the tango just for two_

_I can serenade and gently play on your heart strings_

  
Clint’s voice is pitch perfect, with a roughness to it that makes it its own, adding to the melodic genius that is Freddie Mercury.

Phil walks into a kitchen filled with the smells of dark coffee, bacon and blueberry pancakes.  He knows it doesn’t get any better than this.  Clint’s just flipped the last of the pancakes off the griddle, and has placed the plate on the table, all while serenading the previously empty room.

Clint looks up as Phil walks in, and in a moment of buoyancy and _light_ Phil had thought they’d never experience again, Clint grabs his hand, slides into him easily and takes him on a casual dance inside the cozy kitchen.  Clint’s got a wide carefree smile on his face that curls around Phil’s heart and makes something squeeze inside his chest.

Clint continues his duet with the radio, eyes sliding shut as the song leads him, leads _them;_ voice clear and _beautiful_ \--   and Phil feels a happiness he hasn’t known for three quarters of a year.  He smiles along with Clint (how can he not?) and lets him lead.

He remembers days like these between them that were sometimes silly and playful, when they could let go and just _be;_ so unlike the two agents of SHIELD that they embody eighteen of the twenty-four hours of the day-- before it was all shot to hell, and Phil can’t help but feel fortunate to be here again, in this moment.

Clint’s hips start to sway, voice seductive; his hand slides down Phil’s back (and oh, Phil can feel the hot electric tingle along his skin, wants to moan with how good it feels to be touched by Clint), to pull Phil closer as Freddie croons, inviting his lover to sit on his _hot-seat of love…_

And, Clint stops.  

The happiness dims and fades from his eyes.  He halts in his tracks and Phil stumbles to an abrupt stop.  There’s something broken and painful suddenly between them, yet again, and Phil can’t stand it.  He doesn’t know what’s going on, doesn’t understand it, and fuck.  It hurts.  More than the stab of an alien weapon through his heart.

“Clint?…” he tries to ask, his throat closing; further words won’t come.

A deep furrow creases Clint’s brow, and Phil can see as Clint’s gaze falls to the floor and as he steps away from him (the chill that accompanies the loss of Clint’s body heat punches Phil right to the bone)--  and well. Shit.   

Whatever they’d had, is gone.  It’s broken.  Painfully and awkwardly so.  Phil is so goddamn sick of tip-toeing around what was previously the only sure thing he’s known.  He’s tried patient.  He’s tried understanding. How many more nights of a lonely bed is he going to have to lie awake in?  How many more unspoken conversations is he going to have to a retreating back?

He’s never thought he’d asked for too much for himself.  Never thought there was a ‘deserve’ next to anything he’s wanted with his name on it. He knows he is nothing special.  Just a man, like any other man, willing to step up for what is right; for what is _true_.  Any good agent could take his place.

But Clint.  Clint’s not simply just a guy with good aim who uses arcane weaponry from the paleolithic era.  Clint is a man with fierce loyalty, a strong moral compass and compassion for others despite his own upbringing.  Clint is generous and selfish at the same time.  Ever accommodating while not giving in an inch; ready to back your ass up-- whether if its in the field, or during a Thursday night hastily thought up board game plan of _Risk_.   

In short, Clint is a man who has buried his way under Phil’s skin, slotted himself into Phil’s heart.  It wasn’t instantaneous.  Wasn’t love at first sight.  Instead it was a steady build of friendship and trust.

If Phil has to hate Loki for anything (and hate is such a childish emotion Phil _hates_ feeling it), it’s that Loki took _this_ away from Phil.  Clint.  Clint’s trust.  Clint just sharing himself with Phil.

 

One thing Phil knows about himself, is that like an injured dog, when backed into a corner, he’ll bite.  Bite the hand that feeds him.    

“Barton,” he barks, sharp and flat.   _Phil_ is gone.  Agent Coulson is standing in a sunlit kitchen, wondering where it all went FUBAR.  Coulson’s voice is dry, no-nonsense.  His eyes are icy and distant, “… what the hell?”

Clint won’t look at him.  Stares instead, at the corner of the refrigerator, maybe at the light over the stove, Phil can’t even care to wonder, because its anywhere except for where Phil is standing.

“Sir..”

“Sir?” Phil parrots incredulously, eyebrow arching towards his hairline.

“ah… Phil,” Clint stumbles, he apparently can’t seem to even get Phil’s _name_ past his lips, “I… uh. Can’t. I just can’t...”  Clint scrubs his hand over his face, clearly at a loss for words, “I mean…”

And that response drains everything out of him.  Phil feels the cold grip of ice around his heart, feels it spreading outward, through his blood.

“What?  What can’t you do?”

“Clint,” Phil tries again, a little desperation edging his words, “I need you to talk to me.” His patented dead-calm stare and unflappable-ness crumbling around this _thing_ rapidly falling apart around him-- “What’s wrong?   _I can’t fix_...” his attempts at grasping onto the ether that is them--  “I  can’t _fix_ anything if you don’t tell me what’s going on...”

Phil sees the clench of Clint’s jaw, the narrowing of Clint’s eyes, and yeah, he thinks, finally, _let’s just get it all out in the open._  There’s anger there, pushing its way toward the surface.

“You can’t fix it,” Clint spits out, “There’s nothing for you to fix.”

 _“Fuck_ , Clint-- ” Phil’s lost his ability to self-censure, “no hiding things from each other, remember?”

“Yeah?” Clint snarls back, “well, that was before you died!”

“That... _What_...” Phil chokes back his anger, “What the fuck did you want me to do? _I did my goddamned job_ \--”  

“You went up against a god with untested technology--”

“I _faced an enemy_ that was attacking our people.  For all intents and purposes, we were at war--”

“Phil--”

“No. No, Clint. “ Phil hisses, angrily cutting through the air with a hand, “the Pegasus facility was destroyed, the Helicarrier was going down, our agents were being killed--”

“He was a _god_ , Phil--  what makes you think you could’ve done _anything_...”

 _“He fucking had you!”_  Phil shouts, (and doesn’t mean to).  Not like that.   Phil falters, and there’s something utterly painful reflectingin his eyes, “I... _Fuck._ Clint.  He had you.  I had to get you back--”

 

 

\---

 

 

Phil wakes gasping, back arching sharply off the bed, his body covered in a cold sticky sheen of sweat.  He sits up shakily in an attempt to clear the cloying remnants of the dream still muddying up his brain--  of Loki’s smug taunts and of the _inhuman pain_ of that spear gutting through his chest.   

He turns his head by habit, looking to the other side of the bed, already knowing it’ll be it empty.   

He and Clint haven’t slept in the same bed since that first week after Phil’s release from the hospital.  

Phil used to wake every night, plagued by nightmares.  Medical and psych said it was an inevitable part of the massive trauma he had undergone. Counseling and time would help in controlling the nightmares.

But Phil could see how each night was making Clint worse.   How with each successive night, Clint would hesitate and tense when it was time for bed.  Phil understood it too--  Clint had his own issues to deal with.  And no matter how they’d assured each other that they’d get through it together, (because fuck-- despite the odds they’d both come out the other end _alive_ ), neither could imagine how hard it would be on the other. Clint needed to sleep and recover, and Phil rarely slept a night through without waking multiple times.

Phil needed extensive physical therapy while Clint attended mandatory psych evaluations.  While Phil pushed himself to overcome his body’s limitations, Clint was being subjected to allowing his mind to be dissected yet again for a second time in a span of a few weeks.  

So despite Phil wanting to support Clint as he used to, sitting in the waiting room or meeting him after sessions; he wasn’t there.  Phil knew how much Clint appreciated (sometimes needed) the gesture after guarding himself so carefully with the doctors in psych-- he couldn’t think of it any differently, than he was letting Clint down.

They were foundering.  

 

Phil shivers with the after effects of the dream still pulling at his memory.  It was as if he could still feel the beat of his heart slowing as failure rocked through him, cold and bitter.  As the god fled and Nick came into focus.  As his last fleeting thought was that _they_ would be able to save the world...

Save humanity.  

Save Clint.      

Panic surges through him as the feelings of hopelessness race frantically in his head--  through his blood-- _he’sfailedhe’sfailedohgodClintClintClint..._ Phil tries to take a few slowing breaths, to quiet the nightmare in his head; clenching his shaking hands on his thighs.

 

The dawn is coming in the distance, he can see it through the bedroom windows; the sky just beginning to lighten on the eastern horizon.  Phil forcibly pushes himself out of bed, needing to leave the dream behind him.   

Five minutes later he finds himself walking out to the beach, all the way to the edge of the shore, clad only in his t-shirt and pajama pants.  His bare toes dig into the cold white sand with his every step, reminding him that he is here.  Now.  Alive.

There are heavy rain clouds sitting a short distance out to sea.  Phil watches the sheets of rainfall move closer inland, towards where he stands. Mixed in with the cool trade of salt-wind, Phil inhales the sweet headiness of fresh water rain.  Thankful, as it helps to wash away the bitter acridness of haunting dreams.

 

The sky is just starting to blush orange and pink, fading into pale gray blue, when Phil hears someone walking up behind him; the heavy crunch of booted footsteps against the sand, obvious.  Butterflies thump painfully within his chest and his heartbeat jack-rabbits wildly, because Phil knows who it is.  

Perhaps even why he’s here.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you...” Phil says without turning around.

A deep sigh precedes Clint’s answer, “You didn’t.”

Silence permeates between them.  

Phil doesn’t want to turn around, because if he _sees_... he takes a deep breath.  He turns anyway.  

His stomach plummets as he sees that Clint is fully dressed-- leather biker jacket, boots, _everything_.  Phil doesn’t doubt his bag is packed and by the door.  Was he just waiting for Phil to wake?  Would he have left without a word if Phil hadn’t woken up prematurely?

“Looks like you’re going somewhere,” he says.  Phil has always been a strike first kinda guy. “--didn’t think our flight back was until tomorrow.”

Clint has a rawness straining his brow, a bleakness in his eyes-- like it’s taking every bit of strength he has to be here.  He opens, then closes his mouth, swallowing painfully.  He looks to the side, staring out to sea, unable to meet Phil’s eyes.

Phil waits patiently as he tries again (what else has he to do?).  Clint opens his mouth but the only sound to emerge is a choked noise;  aborted attempts to speak are contorting his beautiful, _beautiful_ face. “I.. Jesus, Phil. _I can’t._..” Clint’s voice breaks as he finally gets the words out--  “I can’t do this anymore, Phil.”

Phil nods, his eyes burn--  he presses his lips together hard to prevent the first words he wants to say from escaping his mouth.  Words like: _Please, no.  Coward.  Don’t.  Please, please. Stay with me._

What comes out instead is, “I know this hasn’t been easy on you...”

“Easy?” Clint scoffs, “yeah, that’s the last word I’d use to describe this whole fucked up situation...”

Phil bites back his retort, because he knows Clint is just picking for a fight to make this easier, “We can do this, Clint.  Don’t...”   _don’t leave me, don’t give up on me,_  “just... stay.”

“Stay?  For what..  So the silence can grow? ... until we push past and strangle _this_... until we hate each other?”   

Clint finally meets his eyes, and Phil sees genuine pain-- along with frustration, and anger and sorrow--  “I’m sorry...” he says, “but we’ve been fooling ourselves thinking we could get past what’s happened.   _We’re fucked, Phil._ ”  and Clint says it so earnestly, moisture whetting his blue-green eyes, “We’re killing each other... instead of knowing when to call it.”

Phil closes his eyes and turns, opening them again only once he’s back facing the ocean.  He refuses to watch Clint walk away from him, for good this time.  “Please, Clint...”  he murmurs, to the softly lapping waves crashing onto the shore.  To the sand crab scuttling along the sand top.

“I called the car to the airport, and I’m catching an earlier flight to New York,” Clint says, almost as an afterthought as he turns and heads back to the house.  As if he needs to inform Phil of his plans.  

“I’m sorry, Phil...”

 

Phil doesn’t know how long he stands there at the ocean’s edge.  The rain eventually makes landfall and he stands there as it soaks him to the bone.  The corners of his eyes sting as it conjures up memories of Puente Antiguo; of he and Clint and what he now considers the start of it all-- a Norse god exiled to Earth.  And what he’s since learned-- that Loki had been there too.

Perhaps that was Loki’s first look at Clint.  At himself.  

Phil wonders if it had all locked into place; then.

 

 

\---

 

 

It’s been almost four months since Clint walked away.  One hundred and sixteen days.  Phil despises himself for counting them out and reminding himself each successive day.

He doesn’t see Clint anymore.

Phil’s taken himself out of the ‘Avengers Initiative’ equation entirely.  After a long and protracted meeting with Nick, with threatened assurances that the situation would _damn well_ be discussed again in the near _god-damned-fucking future_ , Phil placed himself back into Recruiting.  

Phil spends most of his days gathering intel on prospects for an expansion ‘Avengers-like’ team.  It’s a brave new world out there, and it’s a certain guarantee that there are others out there just like their very own Super Soldier and genius billionaire; that aliens are a given now, perhaps roaming the planet as they live and breathe.  SHIELD is determined to establish first contact; to make the play that decides whether these exceptional people ( _or beings_ ) are friend or foe.

It’s a little disconcerting Phil sometimes thinks, that he’s busier than even he’d anticipated.

Fine.  In actuality, Phil does see Clint.  Sometimes from across the tarmac of the Helicarrier when he goes there for meetings with Fury, other times it’s a fleeting glimpse as he heads into the cafeteria at HQ for a coffee refill and Clint is there having lunch with other agents.  They never talk.  Or acknowledge each other.  Phil wonders sometimes, how it got this way.  Then he remembers, and locks himself in his office for the rest of his day.

 

It’s _another_ Stark gala event, one he hadn’t been able to talk his way out of.   In all honesty, maybe he hadn’t really tried.  After all, _Captain America_ is here in attendance, and Phil still can’t stop the giddiness that threads through him whenever he sees Steve Rogers in the flesh.  It has nothing to do with lust or even fanboy-ish glee, but more of an underlying childhood-reminiscent-Pavlovian-reaction in his gut, telling him ‘everything’s going to be alright’.  Something slots into place, and Phil just grins (on the inside) in sloppy admiration.

It’s nice talking to Captain Rogers for a few minutes, he thinks, even if he still can’t assure himself that he _hasn’t_ managed to not make an ass of himself in his hero’s eyes.    

The ‘Avengers’ are not a permanent fixture of New York.  One or two of them will bunk in at Stark Tower when in the city, but for the most part they all have their own obligations, their own interests, to fulfil.  Phil has gotten wind of a potential upcoming op, that will include both Rogers and Romanov for an undetermined length of time; Thor is back in Asgard, and Dr. Banner is currently out of country.

Whatever trepidation Phil’d had about awkward situations of running into Clint at the party don’t occur, and eventually Phil buries it and finds that he’s enjoying himself.  It’s a huge social event after all, and he makes it a point _not_ to case the room as he moves around it.  He’s in a room full of superheroes, and Stark’s paranoia regarding security, so he’s sure he can let his guard down about that tonight.  

Phil focuses only on the people close to him, specifically not zeroing in on any shade of purple or any body shape that could remotely put him in the vicinity of the archer.

Halfway through the night, Natasha finds him.    

He hasn’t seen Natasha in a month; her assignments (for SHIELD or for the Initiative) of course, are not really part of his jurisdiction anymore.  (Which does not mean he doesn’t know exactly where she’s been or how those ops have gone, regardless.)   They have an ease of conversational banter that he’s missed these past months, a shared familiarity around each other that Phil also realizes with an ache that he’s lost; she being the second agent of the pair he had most relied upon and had opened his life to.

Instead of seeing her on an almost daily basis, Phil now only sees her every few weeks or so.  She fills him in on the latest off-the-record goings on with the Initiative (because she knows he knows), along with requisite gossip from around SHIELD.  By mutual unspoken agreement, they do not ever speak about Clint.

Until tonight.

Natasha looks up and catches his gaze, personality shifting, dropping all signs of playfulness she’s used on him for the past ten minutes or so and says, honestly, without pretense, “… he misses you.”

The abrupt change in conversation doesn’t throw him at all.  And he knows, without a doubt, who the ‘he’ is.

Something squeezes inside his chest; Phil’s heart beats painfully at her admission, hope lurching excruciatingly against the insides of his ribs.  Despite the happiness at the confession, she isn’t the person he wants to hear it from, however.  

His first response is to want to say _‘well, too bad’_ and _‘did he tell you I begged’_ , but in truth, any news that Clint is not happy makes Phil unhappy.  He’d make a bad joke and call himself a co-dependent spouse, but that hits way too close for comfort, and the window for jests of _that_ nature are far, far in the past.

Three simple words that say so much more than what was not being said.  They’d worked years together prior to the Initiative, living, breathing, _being_ in each others’ spaces.  What Phil hears from Natasha is ‘Clint’s not taking care of himself’, and that opens up a wide range of issues Phil knows stems from a less than ideal childhood and his tumultuous years in the circus.

Phil huffs almost silently through his nose, still surprised (and yet not surprised) to hear the sentiment.  He’d hoped Clint was taking the time away to heal himself, to try to come to resolution.  They were agents, _soldiers_ ; they had seen so many things, had been through (and _survived_ ) so many nightmares, that Phil knows it takes Herculean efforts, sometimes, to come to peace with oneself.  For what they do.  For who they are.  

The coping mechanisms of every soldier differs, Phil only had to think of Stark or Banner (or of his years in the Rangers), to acknowledge how each person’s tactics for keeping their sanity came in unique ways.  Phil knows there wouldn’t be a thing that Clint would ever _forget_ , about Loki and the Battle of Manhattan, but he’d hoped there would be acceptance.  Endpoint.

He had hoped at least, that the others were helping Clint as best they could.  When he couldn’t.

 

“I can’t be what he needs,” Natasha says, surprising Phil with continuing the conversation.  She’s never usually so heavy handed with him, at attempting to guilt him with a petty phrase-- more appreciative of  vague suggestions and meaningful eye contact instead.

“Apparently, neither can I...” he responds sardonically, taking a sip from the gin and tonic in hand.

Phil doesn’t mean to be dismissive or bitter, but it hurts.  Deep down inside where he can’t even attempt to heal.  Clint had buried himself deep into Phil’s very _being_ , and when he had left, he’d left a goddamn gaping hole in his wake.

_“Phil…”_

“No.”  Phil stands firm, “ _He_ walked.”  

Natasha must see something in Phil’s eyes, because she doesn’t reply.  Her silence communicates understanding, though; and if nothing else, indicates that she’s got no more a solution to this than he does.  

“He needs to decide,” Phil’s voice softens, losing the sharp edge.  Natasha has been a good friend to him, she deserves something more than his standoffish words, “I’ve always been here, Natasha.”   _I’m always the one waiting for him._ “… he just needs to want to come back.”

 

Phil is on his third drink when Maria Hill finds him, and they take their conversations to somewhere they can hear each other over the live music.  They move towards a darkened hallway off a wing away from the party, the murmur of guests and music still energetically apparent.  They are in mild disagreement regarding the tactics one should take when caught by an alien of unknown origin (Maria thinks it should always be shoot first and ask questions later, while Phil disagrees)--  when she leans in and kisses him, cutting off his up-until-now-winning-argument against starting an intergalactic incident with potentially peace seeking creatures.

Phil freezes, in both his train of thought and his breath.  

It takes him more than a second before he gets his head into the game and opens his mouth to her.  Because, _oh_.  It feels good to be touched.  He hasn’t had desire pressed upon him by anyone who’s really wanted him, in such a long time.  And while it should make him lean in towards her and _surge_ , all it does is make the soreness in his chest throb.

Maria is soft and forceful at the same time.  Her mouth, wet and intense and so familiar to him, tastes like champagne and life.

Phil and Maria have history: a sweaty, sticky, no-strings-attached history, that less than a handful of people have been privy to.  Although their approach to command may take different methodologies-- she is ice to his snark, belligerence to his calm; together, skin on skin, they got on like a _house on fire_.  Sex had been nothing if not thoroughly satisfying for both parties.   

But that had been before Barton.   _Clint._

Phil pulls back, a tiny crease in his brow, “Maria…”

“Phil,” she says, stepping into his space to place a hand on his chest, “come back with me tonight.  You look like you could use some company, a friend.”

He stares at her for a suspended moment before his eyes soften, “I certainly don’t want to seem ungracious, here,” he says, voice a slightly bitter rasp, head turning away, “but I don’t think I’ve got anything to give tonight.”

“Hey. _Hey,_ ” Maria replies, grabbing his chin between her thumb and forefinger and turning his face towards her to catch his gaze, again, “I’m here for you, Phil.”  There is exasperation (and fondness) in her eyes, something in there willing him to understand what she’s offering, “if you can’t give… _take_. It’s okay.”

Phil does understand, this thing they are for each other.  It’s been more than a decade since they’ve known one another, since they’d met as ‘recruits’ (and that in itself is such a vague term for them) under Nick Fury.  Phil had been there first, brought in specifically by Fury at the genesis of SHIELD; Maria only a few years later, another hand-picked protégé Fury brought on board after Phil had made it clear he wasn’t interested in Deputy Director type duties.

Phil’s forte, is being in the field; of making things happen.  He’d needed to be an Agent (already a master Tactician), regardless of Level status.

“I’m not offering you happily-ever-after,” she says blandly, her calm sarcasm pulling him back to the present, “just a shoulder and some down time.”  Maria lets up a bit, backing up a fraction, giving Phil some room, the warmth in her eyes caring,  “-- like old times, Phil.”

The thing is?  Phil wants to take her up on the offer.  He wants to lose himself, for once, in something other than his own thoughts.  He opens his mouth to reply, and something, he doesn’t know how or why, he hasn’t heard a sound or seen anything move in his periphery, but _something_ makes him turn his head to the left-- and there, in the hollow of a doorway, Phil thinks he sees a sliver of a plum dress shirt, more shadow than substance.  He turns his body for a better line of sight, but no one is there.

The color haunts him, even when there isn’t a body in it.

Whatever it is or was, whomever it wasn’t--  the moment’s lost, and Phil feels that familiar clump of cold lodge in his chest again.  It’s time for him to go home.

“I couldn’t do you justice, Maria,” Phil says, giving her a soft peck on the cheek, “and thank you, for thinking about me.  But I’m just gonna head out.”  He tries for a self-deprecating shrug as he steps out, back toward the party and the exits.

He won’t look back into her eyes, he wouldn’t know what to do if he saw pity there.  

Phil’s not looking for the black out that comes after mind-blowing sex.  Not anymore.  He’s set his sights higher, no longer willing to settle.  He wants the deep seated contentment of emotional connection.  He wants to wake shivering at dawn because the man sleeping next to him has effectively tangled the sheets around his legs and hogged-hauled all the covers over to his side.  Phil wants to shuffle on in under that pile and wrap himself around said man, nestle his rapidly waking morning wood into the warm cleft of a perfect ass and fall asleep again to the muffled grump of ‘being crowded to the edge of a bed’.

Clint had made him see the possibilities, made him want things Phil had never thought he’d have.  

Now the emptiness permeates everything he’d only had a fleeting glimpse of.  A handful of stolen moments on the tip of a potential of burgeoning into _more_.  Phil feels the cold in his chest expand and start bleeding into his veins as he walks toward the bank of elevators.  

Once inside, he turns toward the glass exterior, watching the city lights twinkle beneath him.  From sixty floors above, the vast metropolis is wide and silent.  Beautiful in its coldness.

 

 

\---

 

 

Recruitment shouldn’t be this difficult, Phil thinks, as he makes his way back to his office.  The sleeve of his suit coat has a tear in it.   There’s a cut across his cheek that’s been cleaned up and sealed with a couple of butterfly bandages, he’s also got a bruise on the corner of his jaw… but, heh.   _You should see the other guy._

“… or you could’ve just said ‘no’,” Phil mumbles to himself as he opens the door, still lost in thought, only to tense up again as he sees movement out of the corner of his eye.  Within a second, he has his gun out and is aiming it toward the vast wall of windows that makes up a corner of his office.

Phil flicks the light switch on.

“Clint?”

Barton looks tense.  Phil can see the rigidity in the lines of his muscles, the way he’s holding himself; he can just about palpate the pressure in the air.  He’s little thinner, but otherwise he holds himself the same.  This is Hawkeye.

Phil’s allowed to be confused.  Clint hasn’t put himself in the general area of Phil for the last six months.  Hasn’t said a word to him, in person, by phone _or_ text.  Hasn’t made eye contact across a room, ever.  So to find him here, waiting for Phil… is, to put it mildly, disconcerting.

“Is something wrong? Is it Natasha?” Phil asks, putting emphasis on the last portion of his query, knowing how important the redhead is to Clint.  He holsters his gun and considers picking up the phone to call Fury.

“What the hell happened out there today, Coulson?”  Clint says instead, practically vibrating in anger, “that was a clusterfuck if I ever saw one.”

Phil pauses, because this is _not_ what he’d expected.

“Where was your back-up?” Clint’s left fist is clenching like it’s looking for something to hold onto, “who’s the agent that was supposed to back your six?”

“Agent Halloway provided immediate back-up and performed her duties as outlined and planned in the recon report,” Phil replies, his voice cool and calm, biting back the instinct to _not_ explain himself to anyone, and yeah, he’s giving Clint _a lot_ of leeway here--  “prior intel was unaware of the target’s recent decline in mental stability, his paranoia-- the mark was convinced we were there to liquidate, regardless of what I’d said.”

Phil walks across the office to his desk and drops heavily in his chair.   _Clusterfuck_ doesn’t even come close.   _That_ was an absolute breakdown in intelligence gathering.  It had made them look like amateurs out there, and agents under his command had been badly injured.  What intel had reported as a possible _empath_ had insteadrevealed himself to be a person that utilized mind-controlling _telepathy_.   The man had been incredibly good at hiding his true nature.

Unprepared, Phil had gone in with two junior agents that hadn’t been trained in withstanding the magnitude of this kind of thought control.  Even though it had only been one man, Phil’s agents had quickly been turned against its own team.  It was Phil having to put a bullet into the target’s brain to end the mission.  His five man team returned with only two standing, the others were still fighting for their lives in medical.

This day had been long and exhaustive already, failed missions always put Phil on the defensive: he was the senior agent, there must’ve been something more he could’ve done-- caught the faulty intel earlier, prepared his junior agents better, taken different agents had he known the true score…  the list went on and on.  Phil would sit here tonight and live through every moment of this day and document every single instance when a different move may have well resulted in a different outcome.  Scenario after scenario ad nauseum so that somehow, some other time, no one would ever make this same mistake again.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Phil powers up his computer and prepares to dig into the long night ahead of him.  As soon as he’s alone again, he’s going to dig up the flask at the back of his desk drawer and take a long swig.

“Where was your sniper?”

Phil stills, fingers hovering over the keyboard.  

“I don’t have one on my team,” he says casually, not looking up from his computer.   _Not anymore._

“What happened to 'snipers were your ace in the hole’,” Clint digs in, moving across the room, “-- that going on a difficult op without one was short sighted.  Your whole team could’ve been killed tonight, Coulson, because you didn’t have a sniper that could’ve taken out the target two seconds after things started going to shit!”

By the time Clint’s done, he’s leaning over Phil’s desk, hands splayed wide over the dark wood.  He looks a little wild-eyed, accusation edging his words.

Phil looks up from his screen, eyes narrowing slowly, “The op didn’t require it.   _This_ was faulty intel.  It’s not as though you’re unfamiliar with this scenario, nor is it going to be the last time it happens either.”  He says it calmly, knowing it’s going to push Clint’s buttons.  He wants to know where this is all coming from, what Clint is doing here tonight.  Their lives are made of operations like these (although the fewer and far between the better)-- assignments that are planned but not guaranteed.  

“Jesus fuck, Coulson!” Clint throws his hands in the air and paces back towards the middle of the room, “SHIELD’s got all this technology and science and fucking _intelligence_ , and you can’t find a job somewhere where some nutjob isn’t trying to kill you?!”

“They can certainly try,” Phil remarks dryly, “we know even gods have tried and failed--”

“How the _fuck_ can you even joke about that!” Clint cuts off, “Do you even know—“  

Phil growls in frustration, it’s been a long fucking day.  His patience is at an end. And Barton wants to choose now to finally grace him with his presence and his words?  His patronizing, ill-timed words.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Clint, and it certainly won’t be my last.  You of all people…” Phil huffs, he can’t believe he’s saying these words to Clint, _like he doesn’t know the score,_ “We all walk out there _every day_ with our eyes wide open--”

“ _Fuck_ , Phil.  If I could even keep you away from _any_ of this.  You shouldn’t be out there--”

Phil's anger skyrockets before he can tamp it down— _“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,”_ he snaps, standing and leaning across his desk, “-- I’ve been doing this job for almost two decades, I’m good at what I do, no, fuck that-- _I’m the best at what I do_ ; and I don’t need your condescending bullshit that I’m a wash out--”

“No one’s saying that you have to—“

“-- or I’m too _old_ , or too _injured_ or some other excuse--”

“Phil--  there’s gotta be--”

“-- I’m a goddamn Agent--  and _I’ll die standing_ before I —“

Phil can see instantly, the way the blood drains from Clint’s face, the way he goes quiet and still.  It stops his tirade.  He sighs heavily, taking a moment to let his anger dissipate.

“Yeah.”  Clint hisses non-apologetically, “you did, remember?”  He stares at a spot on the floor, frowning as he presses his lips together in a tight line.  “Yeah, you did…” he whispers hoarsely, he won’t look at Phil, but the words come quietly—“I.. I’m… _sorry._  Phil...”

Oh god.  Another apology.  Phil’s not sure his heart can take any more confessions of Clint’s regrets.  Because if he has to hear Clint tell him one more time, how _sorry_ he is that they’re where they are now, about how he never planned for this to be the way they ended things, or how he just can’t be (love) what Phil needs… _Fuck._  

Fuck.  Phil will stab himself in the heart, just so he can prevent Clint from doing it over and over and over again.

“No.” Phil responds sharply, raising his hands palms-forward in the universal sign of surrender, “Please… -- _don’t_.  Don’t tell me you’re fucking sorry.  Save me what little I have of my dignity, will you?”  He slumps heavily back into his chair, the crashing adrenaline leaving him tired and worn out.

 

A long and drawn out (empty) silence fills the room.

“Okay,” Clint nods slowly, but not like he’s agreeing to anything.  He turns to go.  

Halfway out the doorway, he pauses and turns his head to the side but doesn’t look back at Phil, “Be careful out there, Phil…”

 

“Goodnight Agent Barton.”

 

 

\---

 

 

Phil used to dread visiting Stark Tower, paranoid that around every corner would be an awkward run-in with Clint.  He should’ve realized how easy it is to avoid someone when they made sure never to be in your vicinity.  Perhaps JARVIS kept tabs on him while he was in the building.  Phil could well imagine his digital imprint floating around an electronic grid of the tower, easily avoidable to anyone with an inkling.

He’s been in and out numerous times over the last several months for various reasons without incident, which is why Phil is _yet again_ surprised to feel eyes on him, only to turn and find Clint standing at the double-wide glass entryway leading back into the tower.  

Phil had taken the extra time, tonight, to come up to the rooftop after his meeting here with Pepper had concluded.  He’s been having monthly meetings with her since he’s returned to active duty, although they are more social than business, but he gets both accomplished in one fell swoop _and_ gets a fabulous meal at the same time.

He can’t exactly say why he chose this detour, anymore; only that the view of New York city at night from this height is gorgeous, and something he’s missed viewing.

Clint though, is even more so.  Phil feels that familiar ache of want in this chest again; he fears ( _he knows_ ) he will never get over it.

He watches, as Clint walks out to him, to the railing at the edge of the roof where Phil’s been leaning over to gaze at the far distant dancing lights below.  They stand side by side like that for a while, silence stretching the five foot gap between them.

Phil can only assume Clint’s come to find him for a reason, and so he lingers; knowing Clint will speak on his own terms.  It was one of the things that came as a surprise to Phil (oh-so-many, many years ago)-- Clint could jaw with the best of them, never letting an idle thought linger for too long, and always with the quick quip or a sarcastic reply—but the important things…  the thoughts that mattered, took the longest to appear.

 

After ten minutes and the archer has yet to spare him a glance, Phil sighs deeply, resigned that this will end as all their recent run-ins have.  Clint’s been in his periphery more often since their last ‘conversation’ in his office almost a month ago.  On the edges of his visits to SHIELD central, Phil’s spotted Clint at the opposite end of the cafeteria a time or two, or far across the expansive lobby as he’s strolled through.  They still don’t speak, silent nods of acknowledgement the extent of their interactions, but... there’s something there.  An expectation perhaps.  But so far, no words.   

He pushes away from the railing and prepares to go.  

“It was nice seeing you again, Clint,” he says, surprising himself that he actually means it.  He can't decide if he should feel relieved or dismayed that it doesn't hurt as much as it usually does, to be this close to Clint without being close to him.

Phil can only liken it to what people who’ve experienced the phantom pain of a lost limb must go through.  Excruciating at first, convinced that their missing arm or leg is on fire or being ripped away,  only to have the anguish fade over time into a dull throb and eventually, to feel no pain at all.

Phil never wants to compare Clint to a part of himself that is lost for good.  

Clint is a survivor.  Phil knows just about everything and everyone who has done harm to Clint.  Physically abused as a child by the people who were supposed to protect him, betrayed continually by those he had placed his trust in--  and yet still, Clint Barton turned out to be a man who wanted to make a difference, who’d made it a point to stand up for the little guys who couldn’t do it for themselves or just needed a little help, for becoming a man Phil was so proud of knowing.  

For having a heart; despite all who wanted to tear it away or burn it down.

So Phil knows Clint will recover from what was done to him.  He’s proved it time and time again.  That Phil couldn’t be a part of helping Clint this time?  Well.  That’s Phil’s to deal with.  He won’t burden Clint with his own feelings of failure or regret.

 

So when Clint opens his mouth and his entire posture changes; _shifts_ , into something open and wounded, Phil isn’t prepared for the pained rasp of confession that falls from his mouth--

“I remember every single moment.  Every choice that was taken from me,” Clint breathes.

No segue, no preamble, and yet Phil knows exactly who and what Clint’s referring to after the first handful of words had left his mouth.  It’d be a dick move on his part to play stupid and ask for a formal debrief, he’s been waiting for Clint’s story since the day he woke up.

“... I’ve told psych it’s all just a blank... but... that’s not the truth.”

Phil watches as a shudder rolls through Clint’s body.

"I told him everything about you...” Clint says ( _confesses_ ) quietly, “You and Nat.  About how to strike SHIELD,”  over the railing, Clint clenches his hands into fists, “He asked.  And I answered.”

“Clint,” Phil replies, “-- you don’t need to...”

“I told him how to hurt Nat.  What to say; how to throw her off her game.”

“She took him apart, Clint-- didn’t let him play her...”

 

“I signed your death warrant, Phil.  Signed it, sealed it.  Delivered it. ”

Clint turns to hold  Phil’s gaze, eyes dark and painfully haunted, “‘the man with the impeccable suit and sarcastic wit-- _‘kill him outright’_ \-- I’d said; don’t let him talk you into a debate, don’t let him get the drop on you.  He’s dangerous and you will lose to him if you let him get first strike’.”

_“Clint...”_

“... and d’ you wanna know how he rewarded me for my information?” Clint’s throat clicks painfully as he tries to get the words out, “-- when he was in Stuttgart and I was at the vault, he linked our thoughts, our minds and bodies, so that we’d be in perfect sync to get the eyeball and the retinal scan together.”

In growing realization, Phil understands where Clint is leading, “No, you don’t have to say--” he tries to interrupt...

“... when you confronted him at the Cage, he whispered to me _‘is this him, the man in the suit’_...  and I could see you through his eyes, and I said...” Clint rasps, voice raw, “I said _‘Yes. Kill him’_...  and he repaid me,”  he sneers the word, “by letting me _feel it_ as he drove that scepter into your back, through your heart; he let me hear your mind _scream_ even as you barely gasped...”

“No...”

“-- and you know what’s the worst part?”  Clint growls, anguish and disgust bleeding into his words, “... I felt his _excitement_ \-- like, --like this _rush_ of lust -- he was _pleased_ that his brother was gone, that you’d been dealt with... that his plan-- _our plans_ \-- were playing out as --”

“-- but then -- you shot him-- even when you were _fucking dying_ on a cold steel floor, you manipulated him into place--   when you took that shot, that second he was unconscious--  it broke the connection between the Tesseract and the scepter... I mean, it must’ve...” Clint’s brows furrow deeply in thought, “... because the next thing I remember is waking up to Nat’s voice,  her face...”

Phil stands there dumbly, filled with horror for what Clint had endured.

“Jesus, Phil... _I killed you_...” Clint’s eyes go wide and lost-- _so lost_ ; searching Phil’s for understanding, pleading for absolution-- “... shit, you know-- I know-- people say I shouldn’t blame myself.   _Everyone fucking tells_ me I’m a victim too... but fuck.. Fuck.. Phil.”

Clint’s blinking rapidly, whether to clear his vision or shake the nightmare away, Phil’s unsure, but Clint’s eyes are glassy and strained,  “ _I still feel it._  The shearing of your muscles around the blade, your weight on the spear in my hand--- _Christ_ \-- the crunch of your bones as the-- ... and I can’t shake it... _I can’t_...”   

“Enough,”  Phil implores, reaching out, “Clint, _enough!_ ”  He takes two steps forward and wraps himself around Clint, pulling him into a desperate embrace-- holding on as tight as he can.

It almost surprises him that Clint lets him, but Phil takes it as the gift it is and just _hangs on_ , murmuring a litany of soft assurances that none of this was his fault.  None.  Gods and monsters.  Nightmares.  Hoping that just some of it will get through to Clint... because, _fuck_...  Phil wants to cry for him.  Wants to kill Loki for him.

Phil almost sags in relief when he feels Clint’s arms come around him, grasping onto his waist; holding on tight as fingers dig into his sides.  He adjusts, cradling Clint’s head against his shoulder, tucking his chin into his neck as he hangs on.  They’ve never really done this before--  held each other-- not for this long, not this frantically.  It feels _so good_ , to be able to be a comfort for Clint.  To be allowed this intimacy.  

“I’m sorry, Phil...”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Clint.”

“Yeah, I do... I’m sorry I let you down... I’m sorry I let you go.”

Phil wouldn’t be Phil Coulson if he wasn’t able to switch gears and follow each of Clint’s scattered thought processes;  sentences and subjects touched upon until the whole picture is revealed at the end… and well, okay.  Phil will give him this one.  He knows too, where this one’s going.  

He’s sorry too, that they couldn’t have been better support for each other, but it’s not as though either of them didn’t know how terribly bad they were at this.  It had taken them _years_ to get to the place where someone had finally said something; _done_ something.  Phil had been so hesitant (so afraid) of changing the best relationship he’d ever had, in reaching for something that had the potential of being so much more.

These months without Clint had only reinforced to Phil, how incomplete he had been, before. How he’d hadn’t even realized how _partial_ was his existence, until Clint Barton had completed the other half.  Phil had made a promise to himself, sometime during all these past lonely nights with nothing else to do but make deals with his own conscience--  to fight for _them_ , should he ever be given another chance.  

Convince Clint that they deserved their shot.  Days, months, years... he didn’t care what they’d get; he just wanted it with Clint.

 

“I don’t-- _I didn’t_ \--  say it enough, Clint,” Phil whispers, lips hovering over Clint’s ear, emphasizing his words with another desperate tightening of his arms around the archer’s shoulders, “but I am so proud of you.  No matter what happens between us, never doubt that.  I always will.  Not even a god will ever take that away from me."

Clint pulls back to look at Phil, heartbreaking disbelief warring with hope swimming in his eyes. "After all this... Everything I’ve _said_... How can you--?"

Phil releases Clint’s shoulder and rests a warm palm over Clint's heart, "--because I know what's truly here. Who you are inside. No sick bastard's going to change that."

Phil leans in slowly, giving Clint every opportunity to move away, “I believe in you, Clint.”  Phil rests his forehead against Clint’s, holding him there; breathing in deeply.

God, he wants this.  Wants Clint in his life.

 

It’s Clint that moves first.  It has to be his choice after all.  Phil would wait (forever, if that’s what it’d take) until Clint had made his decision.  To take what’s being offered, or not.  

He doesn’t have to wait too long.   Clint tips his head to duck under Phil’s nose, and brushes his dry lips so delicately over Phil’s-- once, _twice_ ;  asking for permission to be here again.

Phil tips his chin forward and meets Clint’s mouth, unable to stop the soft sound at the back of his throat at the tender touch.  He feels Clint’s hand wrap around the back of his neck, _want_ floods into his blood unbidden, as Clint’s hand moves upward into his hair to cradle the back of his head.

It’s a move that melts Phil into putty;  Clint knows the effect it has on Phil-- to grab onto and direct his head with those large assured hands.  Clint’s other hand splays up against the front of his throat, moves under his jaw-- as Clint thumb finds it’s way behind the divot of his ear, and _rubs_.    

Electricity trips up Phil’s spine and his mouth opens on a heartfelt groan.  He lets Clint take control.

The kiss puts life back into Phil. The heat of Clint's mouth is overwhelming, a flush wave rolls throughout his body from the curl of his toes to the top of his head. They share a sigh, as Phil sucks on Clint's tongue, rubbing and twisting it against his own.

It starts up a little rough, a little desperate, but after the first go, Clint's lips soften, his mouth slackens and his lips pull tenderly against Phil.  They slow, and suddenly Clint's mouth is all apology and sweetness.  Holding Phil's breath suspended between them.

Phil hadn't even realized his eyes had fallen shut, and he forces them open to gaze at Clint.  He sees Clint looking back at him through half-lidded eyes.  A touch of wonderment and thankfulness weaved within.

He wants to say something clever.  He wants to negotiate, or set down rules, or draw promises-- anything that could save him, save his heart, from repeating this... _situation_ from happening again.  But he knows it wouldn’t matter.  From the day he woke up after he'd thought he wouldn't ever do so again, Phil's taken every damn day for what it is, and is not going to live with regrets.

"Tell me we're on the same page here, Clint," he implores, "... that I'm not reading this wrong?"  He flinches with the uncertainty he can hear in his own voice.

Clint takes a deep shaky breath, Phil's heartbeat on hold as he waits for Clint's response--

"Yeah.. _yes_ , Phil.... I want to.. If you'll let me, I want to..."

Phil smiles, his lip curling ever so subtly up on the right side, genuine; there's something shaking, breaking free in his chest, "I'd like that."

 

 

\--

 

 

The walk down to Clint's room from the roof is surprisingly unobstructed.   

"Nat's out on a mission," Clint says, reading Phil's thoughts easily, "Tony's out with Pepper, now that your meeting’s done... The only one around here tonight somewhere is Steve."

Huh.  And isn't that a funny thought, muses Phil.  That he could run into Captain America while trailing Clint to his bedroom....

He thinks about doing dirty things to Clint while Steve could possibly be just a room or two away, and his brain fizzles out, goes offline.  An inelegant noise escapes his nose, and he hears Clint chuckle in front of him.  

"Yeah, I knew that'd get you started... " he says as he unlocks the door to his set of rooms with a scan of his middle finger on the bioID keypad.

As soon as Clint lets them in, Phil grabs him and pins him to the nearest wall.  He kisses Clint roughly and murmurs hotly into his ear, "you're the only man I need to get me started..." and pulls back a bit to stare into Clint's eyes.  He lets Clint see the teasing for what it is, and shows him behind that, how very serious he is.  Clint is the only person who makes Phil's knees go weak, despite how juvenile Phil sometimes feels around his childhood hero.

He needs Clint to know that.

Clint kisses him back, hard, “How did I deserve you?” he mumbles around Phil’s tongue.

Phil slips his hands under Clint’s t-shirt, rucking it up to his armpits; he lets go of Clint’s mouth to bite at his jaw, lowering his mouth to suck at Clint’s neck--  he never thought he’d have this again, and he wants to relearn each and every sound Clint can make, wants to rediscover the unique taste of Clint again.

He shrugs out of his suit coat, not caring that he hangs it on a hook Clint has near the door, the closest thing he can reach without moving away from Clint.  He tugs twice to loosen his tie and slips free the button at his throat.  He's done with his perfunctory comfort in less than a handful of seconds, because he needs to get his hands back on Clint.

Phil pushes Clint’s shirt up to get to his collarbone.  He licks a broad stripe across it, then sucks on the knobby protrusion.  He scrapes his teeth against it, and gets a soft groan for his efforts.  Then he slowly, slowly, sinks to his knees, glancing up at Clint as his hands work at Clint’s button-fly jeans.

“-- by you being _you_ ,” he replies softly.

Clint stares down at him, eyes darkened in arousal and wild with something Phil can’t name.  He’s breathing in quickly, his belly spasming by having Phil’s mouth so near.  Phil sucks on the skin right above the waistband of Clint’s boxer briefs, all while pushing Clint’s jeans to the floor and divesting him of his shoes and socks.  Phil loves Clint’s bare feet.

“Can I?...” he asks, rubbing the tip of his nose over the large bulge of Clint’s dick, still tucked away.  Phil inhales deeply, humming at the heat and musk that rolls off Clint and flows into his nostrils; he pushes his cheek against Clint’s filled cock, again and again, eager to get his mouth around it.  It makes him groan in anticipation.

“God, yes.” Clint agrees, voice gone rough and gravelly, “it’s always yes with you, Phil...” he says, and Phil sees a shaky hand come down to cup his jaw.  Clint’s hands are always so sure, Phil’s heart flips painfully at the significance.

Instead, Phil turns his head and sucks Clint’s thumb into his mouth.  He plays with it, and lets Clint push his lower lip down, then licks it obscenely.  He looks up at Clint, knowing his eyes have to convey how much he needs this-- needs Clint.

He pulls at the waistband under his fingers, moving it down while he kisses the tip of Clint’s cock.  He sucks on the head a bit to pull out that first salty drop, while he maneuvers the elastic to sit right under Clint’s balls.  

Fuck.  He’s missed this.  The heft of Clint’s cock in his mouth, the taste of him on his tongue.  Phil sucks eagerly, _amorously_ , and pulls Clint in, slowly but steadily, until he feels Clint slip into his throat; until his nose is pressed up to the coarse hair at the base of Clint’s cock.  He hears what it’s doing to Clint--  the breathy gasps and gorgeous moans.  He can’t hear the words being said, but he knows Clint’s talking, way up there.

His eyes flutter closed, and he gives himself blissfully over to working his lips over hot skin, to his tongue finding the grooves and sensitive spots he can’t ever forget.  

He hears a loud groan from above--  “Phil... Phil... I’m gonna... I want..”, and Phil feels a _flush_ of blood roll through him, right beneath his skin.  He knows he’s gone red in the face from anticipation, but he so _wants_.  He widens his knees a bit more, then wraps his hands around the backs of Clint’s thighs.  He grabs Clint’s right ass cheek (and what a glorious, hard, ass cheek it is) and directs him to move-- to fuck his throat.

“Oh god... so good,” Clint moans, groans, _sighs_ , “ you’re perfect... ah.. Phil.... _Phil_...”

Phil’s heart’s thrumming and  there’s blood pounding in his ears at the sound of Clint falling apart above him.  At Clint losing himself by what Phil can do for him, to him.  He cups Clint’s balls with one hand and brushes a thumb up right behind to the soft skin and Clint hardens even more-- thrusting and moaning loudly; Phil opens his throat.  Clint’s hand wraps around to the back of Phil’s head and he _holds_ Phil there as he comes on a high breathless whine.

Phil groans when the first spurt fills his mouth, sucking and swallowing it down.  He suckles Clint through it all, each pulse and thereafter; until he softens, cleaning him and letting him fall from him lips.

 

There are spots swimming in front of his eyes, he hasn’t been this hard in fucking _ever_ , and Phil almost whimpers when his own cock twitches in protest.  Still on his knees, Phil quickly opens the front of his suit pants and shoves it down his thighs.  Just as he’s about to jerk himself to relief, two calloused hands grip his biceps and haul him to his feet.

“C’mere...” Clint rasps huskily, kissing Phil-- _devouring_ his mouth, while shoving Phil’s hand away to wrap his own palm around Phil’s needy dick.

Phil remembers how much Clint loves to taste himself in Phil’s mouth, so Phil goes pliant, letting Clint lick his way behind his teeth and find each and every tang of himself inside Phil.  Phil grunts as Clint’s fingers pinch the tip of his cock, as his broad hand fists him and strokes him _so good._

Phil pumps his hips into Clint’s hand and way too soon, too soon, Phil feels the heat ignite excruciatingly in his belly and expand outwards.  He groans, completely undone, feeling it build, and build; knowing it will finally kill him when it does.  Because this is more than releasing pressure, more than sex without strings--  this is _Clint_.  And Phil knows he will always always need Clint.  His hands, his laughter.  His heart.  

Faster than he wants, the pressure slingshots downward to his balls and explodes up through his cock and Phil is suddenly, helplessly coming, _coming_ , gasping desperately--  whimpering into Clint’s neck.  He, at some point, had wrapped an arm around Clint’s shoulders, and now he hangs on through the aftershocks; Clint slowing his hand as Phil regains his breath.  He sucks on the erratic pulse he finds on Clint’s neck as he tries to come back to himself; tucking his head down just to hold on to this moment for a while longer.

He feels movement, so when Phil opens his eyes, he takes a look downward, only to find Clint rubbing _his_ come over his taut hip, striping it over and into the skin of his belly and chest.  It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“Didn’t mean to get you dirty like that,“ Phil says apologetically, although not really, he’s still a bit muzzly; scenting Clint’s neck.  He starting to really like this idea.

“I like it,” Clint says playfully, although not really, there’s an underlying seriousness threaded through his words-- and when his blue eyes meet Phil’s, Phil is once again blown away by the levity within them, “I like knowing you’ve marked me.  Like I’m yours...”  he adds softly, “like you’re mine.”

Phil tries, to show Clint everything he feels, everything he _is_ , as he looks back at Clint--  “You are.  And I am.”  He leans in and kisses Clint, just because he can.  Phil'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that it all felt brand new again.

This precious thing that they're building together.  

 

“Now come on, we’ve been holding up this wall long enough.  Got something comfortable I can wear?”

“You gonna stay?”  

Phil is slightly taken aback by the surprise, by the way Clint lights up.  Like we wasn’t expecting Phil to stay.  He’s going to change that, make sure Clint always knows how much he is in on this.  How much he had always been.

“I was planning on it, unless you were going to make me do the walk of shame?”

Clint pushes off the wall and starts his way across his apartment.  Angling with his head for Phil to follow.  Yeah, he’s walking away half-naked, in bare feet--  Phil can’t take his eyes off Clint’s ass.

He follows quickly.

“I’d never kick you outta my bed, Phil.  It’d be just my luck that should there ever be a time that I do--   would be one of those nights Steve’s walking to the kitchen for a glass of water.  In his boxers.”

“I...”  Phil halts suddenly outside of Clint’s bedroom, face unreadable-- “I suddenly feel very thirsty, Clint.”

Clint snorts, face breaking out into a toothy grin-- a beautiful, beautiful grin, “Ha. Good try.  Not gonna work though, you’re stuck with me again,” Clint says, grabbing Phil by his tie to pull him into the room. “Shoulda thought about that before you sucked my cock.”

“Not stuck. Lucky.”

Clint stops and looks back and Phil, a playful smirk on his lips,  “You sap.”  They exchange ridiculous smiles.  “Hey, I’m gonna jump in the shower, you wanna come?”

“Just did,” Phil deadpans, ducking to miss the t-shirt Clint’s just pulled off himself and aimed at Phil’s head with, “No, you go ahead.  I’ve got to make a couple of calls to finish up what I need to, tonight.”

“Make yourself at home then,” Clint says, walking into the adjoining bathroom in full naked glory, “I won’t be long.”

Phil watches him go.  Shaking himself out of daydreaming when he hears the shower start.  He strips down to his shorts and makes his calls.

 

 

\--

 

 

Phil startles awake from sleep, breath catching in his throat.  He's cold; whether from a dream he can't remember, or the fact that he's lost all his covers, he can't tell.  He tenses immediately when he realizes too, he doesn't recognize a thing.  This isn't his bed, or his room.

He tries to suppress his shivers and feign sleep while assessing the situation.  He _almost_ makes an undignified noise and throws an elbow when a strong arm wraps around his waist, and he is hauled backward.  The split-second it takes him to identify Clint saves his pride from breaking the archer's nose.

"You're cold..." Clint's sleepy voice mumbles into his shoulder, throwing his leg over Phil.

"That's because you steal all the covers," Phil murmurs back, relaxing, lying his weight against Clint.  The man, with all his muscle, is a furnace.

Clint hums a noncommittal reply, then slowly starts sucking on the nape of Phil's neck.  His lips brush back and forth over cool skin before picking a spot to lick softly.  Clint’s arms come around to bind up Phil's own, and Phil can't help but sigh in deep satisfaction as the heat from Clint's body seeps into his own.

Like the trapped prey of a hungry python, Phil is rapidly losing breath; _but in a good way_.  His heartbeat picks up speed, and breathing through his nose is soon not enough.  Clint's still holding him tight; tighter if it's even possible, as his leg traps together Phil's knees, and Phil feels the unmistakable heat of a hard cock rubbing at his hip.  He shifts, Clint shifts, and suddenly Clint’s hard dick is nestled neatly in the cleft of Phil's ass.

Clint drops a hand downward to gently fist Phil’s cock, and Phil moans softly in agreement, languidly pushing his hips back in encouragement.  He lets Clint slowly rut against him while tunneling into the archer's talented hand; but soon enough Phil needs more.

His skin is flushed, warmth infusing his limbs; and Phil wants so desperately, heat deep inside.  Where the cold almost never dissipates, where it sits in his chest, next to his heart.

"C'mon, Clint..." he mumbles, pushing his head into the pillow, turning his shoulder into the bed to pull Clint on top of him, "I want you to fuck me."

"Yeah?  yeah... You sure?... " Clint, slightly breathless, asks.

"Need it," Phil can feel himself flush at the confession, not in embarrassment, but in anticipation, "need you."

Clint rolls with him, covering Phil almost entirely with his muscled body; immobilizing Phil to the bed with his weight.  And fuck, _fuck_.  It feels so good.  Phil _appreciates_ how powerful Clint is.

"God, I lo-... love fucking you..." Clint whispers to the back of Phil's shoulder, as he reaches over to grab the lube and condom from his bedside nightstand.  The rush of cool air on Phil’s back draws a disappointed moan from him, but Clint is back soon after.

"I love watching you fall apart on my dick, the noises you make when you come..."

Fingers work their way into his body, and Phil just shakes with it.  He’s listening, and yet he’s not-- overcome with sensory nerves firing _everywhere_.  He moans appreciatively as Clint’s fingers cleverly stroke inside, loosening him up for bigger and better things.  They nudge up against his prostate, and the resulting electric buzz draws out another long moan and a twitch of Phil’s hips up into Clint’s hand.   

There is heat building, warmth burning, igniting the cold within his chest, and Phil has never been more thankful for Clint-- Clint who shares his life with him, who wants him with all his flaws.  Clint who has _never_ failed him, despite what the archer may think of himself.

Phil opens his mouth to say... _something_ \--  yesthere.. goddon'tstop.. neverstopneverstop...neverleaveme... But all he manages are incoherent grunts and moans. _I've missed this. I've missed you. I love you._

It's that last thought that blows his mind, so obvious but so unsaid between them.

"Fuck.. _Fuck_...Clint, I'm good." he pants, clenching his jaw to get the words out (the right ones, not the _other_ ones),  "C'mon, fuck me."

Clint must hear him, even if he's breathing and mumbling into the bed sheets, because those fantastic fingers pull free.  There’s a tear of a condom wrap, and the space of time it takes to put it on.

He feels Clint run his hands down his biceps and forearms; grabbing his hands and pulling his arms up, bent at the elbows to rest right over his head. Clint adjusts, to hold both of Phil's wrists with one hand.  

Phil is still flat on his belly, the pillow's been thrown to the floor to prevent him from suffocating on it; and _jesusfuckingchrist_ , Phil knows that he's going to get _fucked_. His legs are suddenly splayed, pushed as far apart as they can go, bent at the knees.  

Clint _pins him_ ; puts his knees right at the backs of Phil’s own, lays down right over him and slowly, _slowly_ , penetrates him... sliding in, in one unrelenting push without stopping.

The breath is punched out of Phil, and he _keens_.  He is being stretched, so full, he can feel every single inch as it fills him up.  It's overwhelming, Clint is all over him, surrounding him; being everything that he needs.  

And when Clint moves, it's even better.  The sweat worked up between their bodies drips down the sides of Phil’s neck, trails past his temple, _drips off his nose_ ; Phil hears the slap and suck of skin on skin, _moans_ when Clint sets his teeth to the back of his neck and bites _._

He tries to move with Clint, but he's being held down, so that he can only lie there and take it.  Oh fuck. If that thought doesn't derail him.

Clint's working hard, barely leaving any part of Phil's body uncovered as he thrusts, rolling his hips into Phil.  Phil has only the bed to rub up against, but he doesn't think he'll even need it.  His cock is ready to go off, already leaking a pool of sticky come onto the sheets.  He is on fire, perspiration rolling off him like water, as Clint fucks him good.

There's heat in his bones, down to the marrow; a burning in his heart that makes everything incoherent.  Phil embraces it, rides it, lets it take him higher and suddenly he is coming-- gasping uncontrollably in release as his whole body convulses around Clint's cock.

 

He blinks his eyes blurrily, coming back to himself; he's got an archer sized blanket on him, weighing him down, and it is the most glorious thing he's ever worn.  Clint must've come, he missed it, but the cuddling after (is this what it is?) he's all in for.

Clint starts to roll away after making a few grumbly noises, but Phil throws a hand back, lazily grasping his ass, holding him in place, "-- just gimme another minute, okay?" he whispers.

There's a moment of absolute stillness above him, then he hears, "okay..." and then there are lips again dragging across his nape.  Clint rolls his head, and then he's sucking on the ball of Phil's shoulder.

Phil is still spread wide, held in place by Clint's legs; it feels both empowering and exposed to be like this.  And Phil... well, Phil just wants it a bit longer.

Eventually the sweat cools and Phil's knee twitches.  Clint slowly pulls out, tossing the condom and rolling onto his back.  Phil groans a little bringing his legs back together, because whoa.  He is well fucked.

Clint scoots up against him and kisses him, a little sloppy and wet.  Phil turns onto his side and wraps his hand around the closest thing he can hang onto-- Clint's ear; using it for leverage, to get him to move where he wants him to, so he can lick into Clint's mouth.

The room is starting to lighten, what once was grey light, is now filtering into a peach dawn.  It picks up the golden in Clint's skin, and Phil can't think of a more beautiful sight than a naked Clint in bed.  Maybe a happily-post-fucked-out naked Clint, in _his_ bed.

"Good morning," he rumbles, voice not yet working smoothly.

"Hey, you..." Clint replies, smiling so sweetly, "... And fuck yeah, it is."

Phil runs a hand through the sweat still clinging to his chest, "I think I'm going to take you up on that offer for a shower this morning."

Clint inhales deeply, and hums contentedly, “... but you smell sooo good.”

“I smell like come.  And you.”

“Exactly.”

Clint's hand grabs a hold of Phil's hip, thumb rubbing over the bone.

They kiss lazily, because Phil’s not letting go, not yet, and he feels Clint's hand moving, scratching blunt fingernails over the muscles of his abdomen; slightly ticklish, slightly arousing.  He huffs, laughing softly into Clint's mouth, "you're going to have to give me a break here, I don't think I can get it up again that fast..."

"Is that a challenge?" Clint smirks, scratching a bit harder, moving up Phil's chest.

 

The first brush of Clint's fingertips over the raised scar on Phil's chest, however, is like a blast of cold water.  Maybe in the grey light the scar on his back wasn’t obvious, but now, in the bright morning, the massive scar on his chest is like a beacon.

Clint freezes, eyes widening in surprise (in fear), his smile falls, his features pale, and Phil sees the way he shrinks into himself, shadows invading his memories.

"Hey..." Phil flattens his hand over Clint's, holding the archers hand over his heart (over the scar), "I'm still here... Clint.   _Clint,_ " he persists, raising his other hand under Clint's chin, cupping it and turning him  to look at Phil when he tries to pull away.  He holds Clint's gaze, letting him see the steadiness, the surefast trust Phil has in Clint, "I don't blame you for any of it.  No one does.  You were dealt a shitty hand... but we are going to get past this, together.  We are survivors Clint."

Clint blinks rapidly, moisture dampening the corner of his eye, "It felt like I was being vivisected, walking,  talking -- every moment like being flayed wide open but still conscious enough to feel it.“

“... and you. He remembered you from Puente Antiguo, saw you through the Destroyer.  He wanted to know why you were always around, in the middle of everything when you were so ordinary.  He couldn't _see you_ , Phil.  Not until I told him.  Not until I gave you away."

Phil threads his hand back through Clint's hair, cradling his skull, holdiing them together, "I've never known a better man than you, Clint Barton, don't make me list all your platitudes when we aren't those kinds of people," his voice is rough, thick with emotion, "don't turn me into a sentimental old man just to feed your ego."

Clint barks out a choppy laugh, half sob, half relief, " _fuck_... Fuck, I'm shitty at this Phil." He wipes the aggravation from his eyes, "just... don't give up okay?  I'll probably be a jerk, probably a lot, so... you know,  just...  stick with me okay?"

This is as vulnerable as Phil will ever see Clint, he thinks, hesitant and asking for support.   _Of course_ he'll be whatever Clint needs.

"Wait a sec," Phil leans back, settling his face as plain as he can, but he knows his eyes are giving him away,  "you're giving me a heads up that you're going to be uncommunicative, cocky and maybe short on patience...  That you're going to give me, and probably those around us shit, if we don't have _our_ shit together.... and the difference in this, from you normally is..." Phil lets that sentence dangle, trying desperately not to let his mouth quirk.

"Oh," Clint snorts then, the sparkle of laughter back in his voice, in his eyes, as he playfully shoves at Phil, " _asshole_."

Phil rolls up to sit at the edge of the bed, he _is_ feeling the dire need for a shower, "and don't you ever forget it," he says dryly.

Clint bounds up on the opposite side, "Fine.  I'll start the shower," he says, then looks back  over his shoulder as he walks away, leering, "--and let's see if I can't win that challenge."

Phil can't take his eyes off Clint, warmth infusing his chest from the inside out.  Finally identifying his need, what he wants from them.  He knows they’re going to be doing this for a while, good days and bad days with many starts and stops between.  You don’t go ‘dead’ or have your head mind-fucked, without long term issues.  But.  They’ll get through it together.  That’s all Phil needs.

They aren't men of flowery words.  Never have been, never will be.  

But some just need to be said.

"Hey, Clint..."

"Yeah?"

 

"I love you."

  



End file.
